


The Beast Howls in My Veins

by onstraysod



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Character Study, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Drinking, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Gen, Introspection, Kidnapping, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fill, Prostitution, Seduction, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22980808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: The cawing of crows is the only conversation Lucien Grimaud enjoys hearing, for like him, they speak the language of death and feed upon the remnants of lives.An ongoing collection of one-shot prompt fills about the notorious mercenary.
Relationships: Lucien Grimaud & Feron, Lucien Grimaud/Aramis, Lucien Grimaud/Guillaume (Versailles), Lucien Grimaud/Original Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 41





	1. Bride, Confessor, Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Howl" by Florence + the Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was his bride and his confessor, and yet it was also him: a manifestation of his soul, if he had one._ Grimaud's favorite possession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "sword"

He caressed it as he might a lover, but more gently. His fingers traced its long line with the kind of reverence he had never felt for God or Virgin, mother or king. The blade was forged in Toledo of tempered Spanish steel, its pommel wrapped in Italian leather. Like everything else Grimaud possessed, it had been taken from another man, but unlike his horse and his pistol and his rings, he had made the sword truly his own. It was an extension of his arm and his will, baptized in the blood of his adversaries, and he polished it daily with the devotion other men gave to the obligations of the Church calendar. It was his bride and his confessor, and yet it was also _him_ : a manifestation of his soul, if he had one.

To Grimaud, it was a living thing, more alive than the miserable peasants scraping a sorry existence from the grime of Parisian streets; more alive, certainly, than an impotent monarch ravaged by disease. Once, a tavern keeper in Alsace who had thought to cheat him of gold had groveled at the biting end of it, begging and wheedling, repeating incessantly why why why…

“Why?” Grimaud had repeated, pressing the tip of the blade into the man’s throat just hard enough to draw a tiny ruby bead. “Because I’m thirsty.”

A single thrust, and steel glimmered crimson, the sword’s need satisfied.

But Grimaud’s thirst was never sated.


	2. We Pay For Our Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When the need became overwhelming, he paid for its alleviation._ Grimaud, sex, and how he satisfies his urges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for an anonymous prompt about Grimaud's sexuality.

He despised the weaknesses of other men, but there was nothing he hated more than his own. Especially those weaknesses that could not be conquered except through surrender. Lucien Grimaud thought of himself as a separate creature from other men, superior to and removed from the base vices that enslaved them, but in one way he was just the same as the rest of his sex, though what other men reveled in, he wished he might escape.

When the need became overwhelming - and this was not often, for Grimaud found a relief of tension most frequently in running his sword through other men’s ribs and watching blood spurt from the cavity of their flesh - he paid for its alleviation. Taking a serving girl at some tavern or a milkmaid in the field was easy enough: Lucien was aware that, for all fate had deprived him of, it had made him a handsome man, with a face and figure that drew women’s eyes. But serving girls and milkmaids were risky, frivolous and foolish, too likely to mistake a man’s physical urge for something more. And with Grimaud there would never be something more. He preferred not to kill women, though he had and could again, but the last thing he would tolerate would be a girl getting romantic notions while he was between her legs. Nor did he like the thought of any bastard of his being brought, kicking and screaming, into this blighted world.

Whores were preferable, for to them it was nothing but a business transaction, little different than a physician paid to lance a boil. As long as a man could proffer the required coin, such women asked no questions and harbored no expectations. There was a chateau of such women on the outskirts of Paris; someone Feron knew had recommended it, as the women were healthy and the madame discrete. This was where Lucien went when the ache inside him grew too severe to dull with bloodletting.

As a rule he did not care overmuch about the appearance of the whore who served him: whether she was dark or light, slender or plump, blonde or brunette. All women, after all, were much the same. But chance had brought him twice to the bed of one called Anouk, and when possible he preferred her, being used to her ways. She was not the youngest of the whores, nor the oldest; she spoke little, but she remembered what he liked and what he did not, and she acquiesced to his preferences without suggestion or complaint. She was dark-eyed and dark-haired, with narrow hips and full, round breasts, and when she took Grimaud to her boudoir she did not rush the encounter, but let it play out every time in the same, slow fashion. He would sit in an armchair by the fire, drinking from a flagon of wine or a bottle of Spanish whiskey, while she undressed. At some point in the process, perhaps after her corset lay on the rug and her breasts hung exposed, Lucien’s control would snap and he’d grasp her, tearing off whatever remained of her garments but leaving her fine silk stockings in place. He would bend her over the side of the bed, her cheek pressed to the counterpane, and take her from behind, holding her so hard by the hips as he thrust that his fingers etched white marks into her flesh that would ere long turn to small bruises. As he drove relentlessly into her wet heat, Grimaud’s vaunted control would begin to unravel. She’d learned during the course of their first encounter that he responded well to certain sounds of pleasure, and so she would gasp and gulp at the air and make little feathery moans as the rhythm of his thrusts grew faster, coaxing him to a finish. They were sounds that reminded him of a wounded creature in its last throes of life, crawling off somewhere to die.

When she made sounds that particularly pleased him, or pushed back against him, swiveling her hips just so, Grimaud would reach forward and thread his fingers into her hair, enjoying the curve of her skull beneath his palm. As he neared his release she would pant and cry out pleas to God, and whether it was simply a performance or he did bring her to genuine ecstasy, Grimaud didn’t know or care. When it was done, he would lace up his trousers, drink down the last of the wine or whiskey, and throw her fee on the counterpane. By that time she would be wrapping a dressing gown around her nakedness and setting her hair to rights. Sometimes she bid him adieu in a bored tone; often she said nothing.

All their encounters had followed this same pattern, save one. Whether that anomaly happened because Grimaud had failed to spill enough blood in the weeks beforehand, or something in his body was wound especially tight, it was a mistake he would never repeat, though sometimes when he bedded down in an abandoned abbey or warehouse the memory of it would flame up inside his head, scorching him.

That day, one release had not been sufficient. He’d needed something more to quench the devouring flame licking along every nerve. After his release, Anouk had turned over to face him. Her skin was dewy with sweat, the rouge with which her lips were painted smeared, and the cheek that had lain against the counterpane red with friction. Her dark hair clung to her brow and throat, and she’d sat up, a sharp light in her eyes that might have been fear, or triumph. Like a man bewitched, Grimaud had reached out, running his fingers down the line of her throat and past her collarbones to fondle her breasts, pinching her swollen nipples between his fingers. Bracing his hands on either side of her body, he’d leaned over her, touching his open mouth to the side of her head, her brow, her jaw: less a kiss than a threat to bite. Anouk had caught his bottom lip between her own teeth, and she’d reached forward to untie the laces that fastened his jerkin.

He never undressed for these encounters: loosening his trousers was enough. But that one time, he let Anouk undress him. Bare beneath her hands, he’d grown achingly hard, and he’d lifted her in his arms, letting her wrap her legs around his waist. Then he’d taken her to the wall and, with her back braced against a paper of sporting nymphs and satyrs, he’d had her a second time, her body pressed flush against him, her face turned to his. That time he knew she came in earnest, for she’d cried out sharply and artlessly, one hand clawing at his hair, her open mouth pressed wet to his jaw. His own release had been like the breaking of a dam after a summer of rain: violent, loud, and primal.

He’d carried her back to the bed then and collapsed upon her, his face pillowed on her breast, and there they’d lain for what seemed a long time, Anouk’s fingers stroking through Grimaud’s hair. He was motionless atop her, fighting down a surge of bile and anger, shaking not with an excess of pleasure but a disgust that went deeper than his skin, deeper even than his bones.

When he rose at last and pulled on his clothes, his muscles still rippling with suppressed shivers, Grimaud looked at the woman sitting on the edge of the bed pulling a dressing gown around her shoulders, and he knew he could not just walk away. No one in the world could know that Lucien Grimaud trembled.

When he pressed the knife blade to her throat, Anouk had sighed.

“Do you think it matters, monsieur, whether you let me live or die? It does not matter to me. I know not your name, nor anything else about you, and you are only one of many men who pass through my door. You may cut my throat if it makes you feel safer, yet who will you go to then when the itch needs scratching? Who will treat you as well as Anouk? Your coin buys my silence, but if you must kill me now, you must. I will not struggle. We must all pay for our pleasure in the end.”

A moment of tension passed, Grimaud’s teeth grinding together. Then he pulled the knife back. A handful of heavy coins dropped on the sheet at Anouk’s side.

He did not return to the chateau. He couldn’t. Not even if the scent of Anouk’s hair remained, unwanted, in his nostrils, not even if the soft sweep of her hands ghosted still across his back in the darkness.


	3. Momentary Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was inordinately proud of his scars, for each one was a declaration of his survival, his supremacy over an enemy, his superiority to other men._ Grimaud relishes a moment of peace and solitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "calm"

There was blood beneath his fingernails.

Not his own. But whose it might have been, he could not guess. How many men had he killed in the past week - eight? A dozen? It hardly mattered. Their faces were now nothing but an indistinct, sniveling blur. He’d worn the blood of other men many times, but it irritated him: not the feeling of it, but the intimacy, the reminder of how close he’d come to the hateful weakness of other human beings.

There was an abandoned chateau in the woods to the north of the road from Reims to Paris that he used sometimes as a hideout. Part of its roof had collapsed and birds roosted in the exposed rafters, but it had everything Grimaud required. He reached the chateau a little before nightfall, and in the largest boudoir built a fire in the grate, heating a kettle of water over the flames. Little by little he filled the old porcelain tub in the room, and once the water had almost reached the rim, tendrils of steam curling up to the gap in the ceiling, he peeled off his clothes. Layers of worn, mud-stained leather and suede fell to the tiled floor beside boots and pistols and sword, and Grimaud stood there naked for a few moments, rolling his shoulders and flexing his neck, reveling in the temporary vulnerability of bared skin.

Once in the tub, he kept his head clear of the water, using his hands to wet his face and hair. He would never allow another human being to know that he woke sometimes, heart pounding and a cold sweat chilling his skin, from dreams of water closing over his mouth and nose, filling his lungs to bursting. But in the old tub, the water was an embrace he accepted; its warmth unwound him, numbing the ache of every muscle and dulling the other, sharper, lifelong pain. He brought one knee up, examining the fretwork of dull pink scars that crossed thigh and shin; turning his head, he traced another old sword wound down the curve of his left bicep. He admired each scar the way an aristocratic woman admired the beauty spots artfully placed on her décolletage. Vanity was despicable, yet another weakness; but Grimaud was inordinately proud of his scars, for each one was a declaration of his survival, his supremacy over an enemy, his superiority to other men. (This he repeated to himself most insistently when he heard the voice in his dreams of drowning, the one that hissed _you’re nothing but a battlefield bastard, a whelp without blood or rank or fortune, a slave to the plans of the haughty and the privileged, a tool to be discarded once they have what they want…_ )

When he’d scrubbed the blood from his fingernails, he leaned back again and let the water hold him, let the perfect solitude of the abandoned chateau fill him with silence. In the gap in the ceiling above, crows were just visible in the last light of the sinking sun, shaking their ragged wings and hopping from rafter to rafter, their caws the only conversation Grimaud enjoyed hearing. Like him, they spoke the language of death; like him, they had no use for people except to feed upon the remnants of their lives.


	4. So Delectable a Vintage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Experiencing every moment to its fullest is urgent, for you never know which one might be the last._ Grimaud is summoned by Feron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt _kalsarikännit_ (finnish, v.) - to get drunk alone at home in your underwear

The messenger who banged on the door of the warehouse at half past three in the morning was barely more than a boy. He shook like a birch leaf when Grimaud, roused from a rare restful sleep, grasped him by the throat and threw him against the wall, the blade of a knife appearing out of nowhere to press against his jugular.

“Please, monsieur! Feron sent me! He needs you to come at once. It is most urgent!”

“It had better be,” Grimaud spat, taking the boy by the collar and giving him a shove. “For both your sakes.”

He arrived at Feron’s apartments barely fifteen minutes later, taking a little used servants’ passage through the palace complex. That he was obliged to use such a passage had always irritated Grimaud; that night, it made his blood boil, and by the time he reached Feron’s door, he was ready to run someone through.

“Ah, Grimaud! You came! Come in, come in!” Feron opened the door dressed in his nightshirt and dressing gown, the gown hanging partially off one shoulder. He held a flagon of wine in the hand that waved Grimaud inside.

“What was so urgent?”

“What was urgent? Why, my dear Grimaud, life is urgent!” Feron stumbled over to a sideboard and poured a measure of the wine into an empty goblet, sloshing some of the ruby-red liquid over the side. “Experiencing every moment to its fullest is urgent, for you never know which one might be the last. And what a tragedy it would be, hmm, to leave so delectable a vintage untasted…” He walked back towards Grimaud, thrusting the goblet at him. Grimaud hissed a breath in through gritted teeth and his hand went to the hilt of the stiletto on his belt.

“I have a mind, Feron, to make this moment _your last_. You’re drunk.”

“Yes!” Feron cried. “Joyfully, wonderfully drunk! You should try it sometime, Grimaud. It’s liberating. You’re too rigid, too hard on yourself. Ascetic as a monk. Come: indulge.” He tried handing Grimaud the goblet again; Grimaud didn’t stir.

“I was sleeping, Feron, and you roused me out for nothing!”

Feron looked wounded. “Not for nothing, my dear Grimaud. To drink with me! To get drunk! ‘Control at all times’ is all well and fine, but a man must breathe! Let us imbibe this fine wine until all the dirty, sordid world seems nothing but a ridiculous dream.”

Grimaud sneered. “Drinking beyond the limits of what one can tolerate is foolish. And weak. You know how I feel about weakness.”

“Yes, yes. Well, perhaps that is your weakness, hmm? Did you never consider that? Holding men, including yourself, to impossible standards?” Feron passed the goblet close below Grimaud’s nose. “Smell that bouquet. The richest vintage in all Bordeaux, bound for the King’s table. Until I had it diverted to mine.” He regarded Grimaud with a mischievous smirk and held the goblet beneath the mercenary’s nose again. “But what, I ask you, has our King done to earn it? Surely the tireless Grimaud deserves it more…”

Grimaud grasped the wrist holding the goblet: not hard, but firmly enough to promise pain. Feron’s eyes widened, the first hint of fear penetrating the haze of alcohol.

“I’ll give you one more chance, Feron,” Grimaud growled, “to come up with a good reason for summoning me here at this hour.”

Feron shrugged. “Well, there was the small matter of my having discovered where the King has deposited a large quantity of reserve gold, and having successfully cultivated a guard who has agreed to help us obtain it, but…” The smirk returned as he watched first surprise, then delight, dawn in Grimaud’s eyes. “Now will you drink?”

Fiery determination twisted Grimaud’s lips into a smile as he grabbed the proffered goblet. “With pleasure.”


	5. Le Renard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was the perfect arrangement for them both. Until the night it wasn't._ Feron arranges a marriage for Grimaud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt requesting Grimaud in an arranged marriage, beginning to feel things for his wife when she cares for him while injured.

Madame was fond of masked balls, intrigues, and the gallantries of men. But she was fiercely independent and had no wish to surrender an iota of her freedom to a husband. She was an heiress, but thanks to a grandfather who distrusted her rebelliousness, her fortune was contingent upon her marrying. Luckily, nothing was stipulated regarding the husband, so Monsieur Feron had proposed a solution: a marriage of convenience between the lady and his associate, Lucien Grimaud. Madam would receive her inheritance, Feron a small percentage of its yearly distribution, and Grimaud would have the use of the lady’s chateau outside of Paris as a refuge for when the king’s musketeers drew too near.

Madame did not meet her prospective husband until the wedding; the only words they exchanged were the vows, and Grimaud rode off right after the ceremony. It was Feron who handed the bride into her carriage.

“I tried to convince your groom to delay his departure long enough to consummate the marriage, but alas!“

“I had never thought to say this, Feron, but I am rather sorry for it,” Madame had confessed. “There are any number of ugly men in France - could you not have found me one of them?”

But Madame was more than content with her continued freedom, her dark medieval chateau filled with books and tapestries, her wolfhounds and terriers; and as for Grimaud, he had no use for a wife. He saw her rarely, even when he visited the chateau between travels, for his rooms were in the wing opposite to Madame's, and like his wife, he had no need for companionship. She was comely enough, he supposed, but she was sharp-tongued and too clever, and as a friend of Feron she was an object of suspicion. Thus he avoided her, and when their paths did cross, the words exchanged were few.

It was, in other words, the perfect arrangement for them both. Until the night it wasn't.

Grimaud arrived at the chateau a little after ten, bleeding from a sword wound that ran from shoulder to bicep. A maid fetched Madame, who found him in the parlor, drinking wine straight from the decanter.

“I’ll send for a doctor.”

“No doctors,” Grimaud growled. “I’m fine.”

“You are clearly not fine, monsieur, you’re bleeding on my carpet.”

Grimaud’s smile was savage. “Apologies, _dearest_. Fetch me a bandage, I’ll tend to it myself.” And as if to belie the words, he staggered and nearly dropped the flagon of wine.

“Sit down, fool. I’ll tend to you - I suppose that is the duty of a wife.” With a roll of her eyes, Madame rang for the maid, who rushed back in moments with a basin of water, clean cloths, and the lady’s sewing kit.

“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Grimaud mumbled, scowling as Madame perched on the edge of the chaise where he reclined. “I’m sure Feron doesn’t expect you to play nursemaid; nor do I need one.”

“I don’t care what Feron does or doesn’t expect.” She bent over his shoulder, studying the wound. “It’s not terribly deep, but it will need stitching. Come: this shirt must come off.” Without waiting for Grimaud’s consent, she began tugging the laces of his jerkin loose, drawing both it and his shirt up over his head. “Did you imagine I was Feron’s creature? A spy, meant to keep an eye on you and report back all your comings and goings?” She began washing the wound, moving the damp cloth gingerly over his muscle, and Grimaud flinched at the touch.

“The thought had occurred to me,” he confessed, taking another swig from the flagon and gazing at his wife. She was dressed in a nightgown of slightly diaphanous fabric, with lace at the sleeves and the low neckline. The silk dressing gown of deep green and violet she wore atop it had come loose where it was tied at the waist, and Grimaud could see the silhouette of her hips and thighs through the fabric, lit from behind by the candelabras across the room. He ground his teeth. “Your denial hasn’t dissuaded me.”

“Your suspicions are no concern of mine,” Madame said, “but I loathe Feron. I wouldn’t tell him what one of my dogs was doing, let alone the man I married. Even if he is a stranger.” She took up a bottle of whiskey and poured a measure of it onto a fresh cloth. “This will sting.”

“I’m used to pain.” He winced, the burning sensation stabbing through the wound and jarring against the bones beneath. 

“No stranger to bestowing it either, I’d imagine,” Madame murmured.

Grimaud glared at her. “If such things alarm you, perhaps you should have inquired more closely into your husband’s character.”

The cleansing done, she threaded a needle and adjusted her position on the chaise beside him, drawing closer and laying one hand on the nape of his neck to keep him still. Her face was close to his and her loose hair tickled against his bare back as she bent over his shoulder. “First stitch,” she warned, and there was a sharp but slight pain as the two halves of the wound were pulled together.

“You are skilled at needlework, I take it?” Grimaud sneered around the mouth of the flagon as he took another drink.

There was amusement in her voice when she replied. “Not particularly. I’ve always hated it. I refused to practice.”

Grimaud turned to stare at her. “Perhaps I don’t wish to be used for practice now!”

She smirked, nonplussed. “Perhaps you don’t have a choice, unless you’d rather keep bleeding.”

Grimaud gave a surly huff and continued drinking. “Why are you doing this?”

“Whatever do you mean? You’re my husband.”

“In name only. You owe me nothing.”

“That was not the arrangement. As I understood it, I owe you the shelter of my roof. And my discretion.”

“But not the tending of my wounds. You would have been entirely within your rights to let me bleed to death out in the courtyard.” He was staring at her profile again. “Wouldn’t that have been preferable to you?”

She paused and looked up from her work, her brow furrowed. ‘Preferable? To allow you to die when I might have simply stitched your wound? I can’t imagine doing such a thing.”

Grimaud was still watching her closely. “You can have no illusions as to what I am.”

Madame continued her stitching. “When I was a child, we had a gamekeeper here, an old man, of whom I was very fond. One winter, foxes got into the chicken coop and killed almost all the hens. My father told the gamekeeper to make the coop more secure and to go out and kill every fox he could find on the estate. He often took me with him on his rounds, so I was there the morning he spotted a fox in the elm woods. He was an excellent shot, despite his years, but when he took aim at that fox, he shot too high. I saw it. We watched the fox run away and I said to him, you aimed too high and missed the fox on purpose. And he told me, even the hungry vicious creatures deserve to live.”

Grimaud gave another huff. “So you think of me as a fox?”

“I certainly don’t think of you as a chicken.”

A strange, raspy sound spilled from Grimaud’s throat, startling him more than it did his wife. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d laughed in genuine amusement, not to mock or wound or menace.

He glanced aside at Madame as she continued sewing up his wound, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth with concentration. She was seemingly unafraid of him, and yet her audacity didn’t anger or offend him as it might have done had she been anyone else. He pondered this mystery, and as he did his eyes took in her form, all the senses of his body awakening to her. Her hair exuded a flowery perfume, and her every exhalation was a ghost against his skin. One of her legs was bent beneath her and the knee pressed against his hip. Her warmth was all-encompassing.

_Grimaud turned, catching her hand to halt her stitching, and her lips parted in surprise, her eyes large as she met his gaze. Reaching out, he opened up her dressing gown, pushing it back off her shoulders, then laying his hands over the creamy swell of her breasts. His mouth captured hers and she whimpered into him, her hands venturing to grasp the back of his neck. Grimaud leaned into her, spreading her thighs and sinking between them. She was slick and snug around him, her body both yielding and reciprocating his every move, her hands kneading and grasping at his flanks. He tore the neck of her nightdress to get at her nipples, his thirsty tongue swirling over their peaked surfaces, his teeth tugging, and yet it was not enough. He needed more: all of her heat, all of her softness. Hoisting her legs over his shoulders, he buried his face in her sex. She arched her back, clawing at his head, and the sounds she made were a hot blade slicing into his core._

_He would take her in his arms later and carry her upstairs to the bed they would now share; he would fill her again and again with his seed, and in the coming months watch her swell with his child. He would stay at the chateau, lie with his head pillowed in her lap, her hair twined around his fingers. He would grow old in her arms._

“And it’s done.” She bit off the end of the thread, her teeth clicking together, and Grimaud returned rudely to reality. Madame was already pulling away, her body no longer in contact with his. He felt colder for it.

“You should rest for a few days so as not to tear the stitches,” she was saying as she wound up the excess thread and put it away. “I’ll have my maid make certain you have everything you require--"

She stopped abruptly when Grimaud grasped her hand. With his other, he pushed the loose cascade of her dark hair away from her face and back over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said, for the first time in his life.


	6. Jesuit Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You should be careful about playing the game of seduction with me, Grimaud._ Grimaud toys with his latest captive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "a prize"

The man chained to the dungeon wall braced his boots against the damp stones and gave his restraints one more violent yank, but to no avail. He’d been fighting them for over an hour now, working up a sweat that turned the curls of his hair lank and plastered his undershirt to his chest. Finally he seemed to accept the futility of his struggle and he sagged, letting the shackles around his wrists support his weight. He peered up at Grimaud through a loose ribbon of hair and smirked.

“Don’t suppose I could get some water, could I?” His voice was breathless, but his tone perfectly controlled: not a trace of anger to be heard, it was as if he were having a conversation with an old friend. Grimaud ground his teeth. More work was required to bring this king’s horse to heel.

He had to break him. And he would.

Rising lazily from his chair, Grimaud picked up a flagon from a side table and strolled over to his prisoner. Standing a few feet away, he uncorked the bottle and lifted it to his own lips, drinking his fill and letting some of the water run down his chin. When he was done, he corked the bottle and dragged the sleeve of his jerkin across his mouth.

His prisoner nodded, smiling, and gave as much of a shrug as he could manage with his arms spread and his wrists shackled to the wall. “So it’s going to be like that, is it?”

“How else?”

“You might as well give me a drink. We’re going to be here awhile.” Aramis lifted his chin and gazed defiantly at his captor. “Your prize is somewhere safe and I will die before I tell you where to find him.”

“My prize?” Grimaud’s dark brows knitted in feigned confusion. “What do you mean?”

The Musketeer rolled his eyes, but the first hint of uncertainty had come into them, pulling away the curtain of sarcasm. “The dauphin, of course.”

“The dauphin?” Grimaud laughed. “No, don’t worry about your precious royal brat. He’s perfectly safe. At least from me.”

“Then what? What is it you want this time? The keys to the Bastille? The Tuileries, perhaps? Or is it all of France you desire?” Aramis arched one brow, some of his cockiness returning, and Grimaud felt an answering twitch deep inside. “Will your ambition finally be satisfied once you’ve stolen a crown for your head?”

Grimaud took a step, bringing him close enough to the shackled man to smell his sweat, the remnants of perfume in his hair, the leather of his jerkin. “Is that really what you think this is about? Ambition?” He shook his head. “This has nothing to do with crowns or palaces or princes. Nothing to do with revenge, either. For some time now, I’ve had a very different object in mind.”

“Indeed?” Aramis tilted his head to one side, a half smile on his lips. “You intrigue me, Grimaud. I can’t figure you out. You are clever, cunning. Skilled with a blade.” His gaze trailed up and down Grimaud’s body before returning to his face. “Handsome. Why squander such gifts on… well, whatever _this_ is.”

“ _This?_ This is what it’s always been. Me, seeing something I want. And taking it.”

Drawing the cork from the flagon, he raised the vessel to his prisoner’s mouth, tilting it slowly until the water inside slid up the neck and between Aramis’s lips. The Musketeer held Grimaud’s gaze as he swallowed, some of the liquid escaping to catch in the hairs on his chin, some dripping down to be ensnared by those on his chest. Pulling the flagon back, Grimaud reached out impulsively with his free hand and curled one of the laces at the neck of Aramis’s undershirt around his finger. He gave it a tug and the shirt fell further open, all that spilled water glistening like gems across the Musketeer’s sternum.

“You should be careful about playing the game of seduction with me, Grimaud,” Aramis said, and his voice was curiously husky for a man who’d just been drinking. “It’s one at which I’m particularly skilled.” And still holding Grimaud’s gaze, he dragged his tongue slowly across his bottom lip, licking up the excess water.

Grimaud touched one of the tiny globes of water clinging to Aramis’s chest, transferring it to the tip of his finger. “I look forward to seeing you go down on your knees,” he said, and he leaned closer, putting his mouth to Aramis’s ear. “And not to say your Jesuit prayers.”


	7. Mirror Image

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was like looking into a mirror, one imbued with a magic that showed what life might have led him to, if he had made very different choices._ Grimaud pays a visit to a shoemaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for erinthevampire who requested a crossover drabble about Grimaud encountering Guillaume from _Versailles_ (a character also played by Matthew McNulty)

The man was waiting for him just inside the workshop, his sword unsheathed, the tip of the blade finding the hollow at the base of Guillaume’s throat as he turned from closing the door. He often sought refuge in his craft in the late hours when dreams of war chased him from sleep, the soothing repetitive work of stitching leather calming both mind and body, but never before had he found his sanctuary assailed by a stranger. His hand reached automatically for his own blade, but of course it was hanging over the hearth inside his dwelling: like his uniform, a part of his past he had not thought to revisit.

“I have need of your skills, shoemaker.”

With his free hand, the stranger seized the lantern Guillaume had brought, lifting it up so that the light fell upon both their faces. Guillaume was momentarily stunned into silence. It was like looking into a mirror, one imbued with a magic that showed what life might have led him to, if he had made very different choices. The man might have been his brother, his twin even, save for his beard and unwashed hair, the travel-stained leather clothes, the scars on his face and the gold rings on every finger. But these were superficial differences. The greater one was to be found in the stranger’s eyes and expression: a coldness deeper than the skin, one that radiated hatred outward at the world and inward at himself.

“If you require a pair of boots, monsieur, you might have come during business hours like everyone else.”

The man sneered. “It’s your work with needle and thread I require.” He opened his jerkin, drawing Guillaume’s attention to a bloody slash on the left side of his stomach. Someone’s sword had bitten through his layers of clothing and deep enough into his flesh that fresh blood was still blossoming through the fabric. “Stitch me up quietly and I’ll reward you well in gold.”

With the tip of a blade nicking his throat, there was little Guillaume could do but consent. Yet he would not do so placidly. “Very well. But to seek care with me you must be truly desperate, not to mention on the run. I should warn you that in addition to being a shoemaker, I am also a soldier of the king.”

The stranger pulled the sword away from Guillaume’s throat, only to take a step closer, bringing his face very near. Guillaume was keenly aware of the man’s scent: a mixture of sweat and horseflesh and leather, and something almost sweet beneath, like bergamot or patchouli. A flame flickered up in the pit of Guillaume’s body, one he didn’t quite understand - or wish to.

“And you should know, I don’t give a damn about your king,” the stranger snarled. He held Guillaume’s gaze for a few tense seconds before looking down at his mouth. “But don’t worry. I won’t hold that against you. I find I have no inclination to maim this face.” He let go of the lantern, letting it swing in Guillaume’s hand, and he laid his thumb gently against the shoemaker’s lips.

What devil sat upon his shoulder at that moment, Guillaume would later wonder, prompting him to do what he did? To open his mouth and take the stranger’s thumb against his tongue, to suck softly at the tip? Fire leapt into the stranger’s eyes and he hissed through his teeth, unable to look away from where his flesh disappeared inside Guillaume’s.

“Yes,” he breathed, “yes. I think you and I will get along splendidly.”


End file.
